


how life goes

by emmram



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M, post S1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 04:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4085887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmram/pseuds/emmram
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richelieu/Treville, post-s1. This is how the Cardinal, the First Minister of France, loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	how life goes

**Author's Note:**

> s1 SPOILERS. also for the beginning of s2.

It starts with the swelling of his ankles and a peculiar, nagging exhaustion.

Richelieu will be the first to admit that he has spent far too many hours of his life on his feet, chasing after his King or on one of many, many affairs of state and war. Even so, when the physician’s first suggestion is that he rests as much as possible with his feet at a higher plane than the rest of his body, he laughs. _Am I a wine bottle, Monsieur Bouvard?_ he asks, sneeringly. _Tell me, when I recline, do my humours come cascading down my legs to pool in my belly?_

Bouvard blinks. _Well, yes_ , he says.

Richelieu dismisses him without another word and carries on as always. Over the next few weeks, the exhaustion gets worse, and no amount of massaging will help his ankles, which seem to have swollen to the size of tree trunks. One morning he finds himself simply unable to get out of bed, and in a moment of quiet, cold clarity—one of the last such moments he will have in some time—he realises that he has spent the last of his reprieves; that his mortal life is finally drawing to a close. He tries to recall some of the hectic panic that he’d felt the last time he’d been on his deathbed—barely months ago, now—but he’s tired, far too tired to muster anything beyond a sort of disgruntled resignation.

He has one of his aides inform the King of his condition, and is genuinely surprised to see Louis stride into his room barely a half-hour later, anguish writ large on his face. _Richelieu!_ he cries, throwing himself about, _Richelieu!_ , lamenting that death would haunt _such_ a great, shining soul so, calling for Bouvard and threatening to have him beheaded if he could not cure this illness, and Richelieu is struck by the strange urge to sit him down, give him a tight slap, and ask him to pay attention to his lessons _or else_. The thought makes him even more tired.

Louis finally leaves, a gaggle of bemused courtiers in tow. Treville lingers, actually shuffles his feet for a moment like a particularly shy choirboy—much to Richelieu’s amusement—before settling in the chair next to his bed. _I’m sure you’ll start feeling better soon,_ he offers, a little weakly.

Richelieu rolls his eyes. _For a man who claims to be above politics_ , he takes a breath, _you certainly know how to peddle false niceties_.

 _Only you would see falsehood where there is hope_ , Treville says, and he smiles fondly. _You will live, Richelieu. For the King, and for France._

He really does not have the strength or patience for this argument. He nods and closes his eyes, expecting Treville to leave, but instead he feels a warm weight on his hand and recognises it as Treville’s. He is loath to say that it is _comforting_ , but illness does have a strange way of stripping one’s heart bare, be it the patient’s or the one bearing witness.

 _This country is in your hands, now_ , he says. _You and that infuriating regiment of yours_.

 _I’m sure my men would better serve the King_ , Treville says, and now there is something cold and sharp in his voice, _if they weren’t used as disposable pawns in a larger game_.

 _A game that we both have played, my friend_.

 _I will not forsake them again_ , he says. _Not under any circumstances_.

Richelieu smiles blindly. _They are but brash young men. If they forsake you?_

Treville’s grip tightens for a second, becomes almost crushing, before he lets go and gets up. _I wish you a speedy recovery_ , he says, his tone low and clipped, and he walks out of the room.

Richelieu continues to smile as he sends for d’Artagnan. The lad enters his chambers not ten minutes later—Richelieu can hear the jaunty chime of his sword and gunpowder flask against his legs long before he enters the room. He looks wary, but his eyes are clear and his bearing is straight and proud; Richelieu is struck by the memory of the day d’Artagnan received his commission, and how, even then, spattered with mud, drenched in sweat and tears, he’d looked every bit the great soldier Treville had told him he’d become.

 _Sit down_ , he says, gesturing weakly to the chair by his bed.

d’Artagnan does so, one hand worrying nervously at his belt buckle.

 _You are the King’s Champion, d’Artagnan_ , he says, and is amused by the way the young man’s face immediately lightens in a self-satisfied grin. _Never forget that. You will always be among the King’s personal protection detail, and his safety is your paramount concern. Even if it means—_ here he lowers his voice— _disobeying an order or two to execute what you think best_.

d’Artagnan gathers himself impressively. _If you’re suggesting insubordination, Cardinal_ —

 _d’Artagnan_ , he interrupts. _Open the first drawer to your left. Show me what you see inside_.

He frowns, but complies. He pulls out a large gold ring, adorned by a single dull topaz stone. _What—?_

 _That gives you the authority to act on my behalf_ , Richelieu says. _And I authorise you to do anything you see fit. See—I trust you, d’Artagnan; you are already an accomplished soldier, and you have saved the Queen from my own moment of madness. You will receive no censure for your actions as long as you wear that ring_.

There’s a brief moment of hesitation that delights Richelieu. d’Artagnan is a beautiful young man with uncommon spirit—he can see why Treville holds him in such great esteem—but his vulnerability to flattery, it would seem, is all too common.

 _No_ , d’Artagnan says finally, then a little stronger, ** _No_.** He places the ring carefully on the table and gets up. _I’m grateful for the offer, Cardinal, but I follow my Captain’s orders_.

 _Of course_ , Richelieu says. d’Artagnan nods and leaves the room, but the chime of his weapons against his person seems to be a little louder, a little faster.

 _Gascons_ , Richelieu muses out loud, a little fondly.


End file.
